Harry picked his way across the beach, but when he approached the knot of people around his mother, he stationed himself partly behind a palm tree to covertly study them— well, to study one person in particular— his heart hammering in his throat.

"I'll get you settled in," Lily was saying brightly, gesturing for the guests to follow as she walked backwards into the open hotel lobby.

"Draco—" The beautiful blonde woman called, on Lily's heels.

"Yes, Mother, I'll just get the bags," the object of Harry's study pivoted gracefully, and Harry didn't have the time or imagination to pretend he hadn't been staring.

Draco's eyebrows rose slightly.

He looked good, Harry thought. Lithe and sharp and elegant as ever, but his blonde hair was slightly tousled, as if his gel hadn't quite held up against the Greek sun, and there was color on his cheeks already— the beginnings of a tan, or a burn, maybe. He was wearing a loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the top in deference to the heat, and the sharp swooshes of his collarbones and the elegant column of his throat were exposed to the wind and the world and to Harry's greedy, greedy eyes. The adam's apple on that elegant throat bobbed, indicating that its owner had swallowed, and Harry, suddenly forced back to reality, dragged those cursed greedy eyes awkwardly back up to meet Draco's grey ones.

There was something hungry in them, something powerful, and it hit Harry rather unexpectedly, like a physical blow. Draco stepped forward, and Harry stumbled backwards automatically. He felt his back hit the rough bark of the palm tree, and he reached back to hold the trunk and steady himself.

His breathing was shallow; he could hear it on the wind, and he hated himself for being so weak, hated that there were stupid tears prickling at the backs of his eyes. He lifted his chin defiantly—never mind that he was all but sagging against the tree and tearing up— "What are you doing here?" He demanded.

"What are you doing here?" Blood dribbled from Harry's lips and down his chin and Malfoy gave him an annoyed look, before grasping Harry under his armpits.

"He saved your life, that's what he's doing here, Potter—for Merlin's sake why is it always you— Now, Mr. Malfoy, I've got his leg—"

Harry groaned as he was hoisted onto a bed.

It was raining hard outside, and Harry was in the bed by the window, his mangled leg bound up in ropes. His head was pounding violently, threatening to split the world in two, and his blood was hot and thick on his face and nose and running between his cracked lips into his mouth. Fingers prodded his leg and he let out a guttural scream, thrashing against the arms restraining him; the world was hazy with pain, but he focused, with effort, on the drawn, pinched, and decidedly unwelcome face of the man who held him down.

"Yes, I know it hurts; you've gone and snapped your femur clean in half," the healer informed him from somewhere in the vicinity of his feet, her matronly voice tinged with exasperation. "And all for what? A little golden ball? Dear Merlin and Morgana, I'll never understand the insanity that is this sport. Midnight Practice?! Extra bludgers? In this weather? Thank Merlin I had Malfoy on duty, or next week we'd be at a Puddlemere funeral, not a match! Quick thinking, by the way, Mr. Malfoy, I've never seen someone use the Incarcerous spell for a tourniquet; well done—"

Harry blinked groggily at his former nemesis; Malfoy was bent over him, pinning Harry's upper body to the bed by his shoulders. He was disheveled from the rain, all pinched eyebrows and floppy blond hair, dripping water all over Harry and the bed.

"There's nothing for it, we're going to have to fix the break. It's going to hurt. Mr. Malfoy, would you like to do the honors? I believe you've already covered the spell in your practical first aid class?"

Harry saw Malfoy half-turn, obviously eager to learn, and a blind, mindless panic rushed through him at the thought of Malfoy pointing a wand at the mess of bone and blood and earth-shattering pain that was currently Harry's leg. Malfoy caught his look and hesitated, before turning back to lean fully over Harry, pressing him firmly into the bed.

"I'm good where I am, Healer Smythe," Malfoy said, "I'll just hold him down."

Healer Smythe offered Harry a rolled-up rag to bite down on, and Harry did, tasting the sickly taste of antiseptic and cotton amidst the blood that was already in his mouth.

"I'll just count down from five, okay? Five…"

"Potter," Malfoy adjusted himself over Harry's torso, grip strong but not harsh.

"Mmm," Harry mumbled, Malfoy's blurry face swimming in and out of his field of vision. He knew he was tensing in preparation for the pain, which would only make it worse…

"Four…"

"Harry,"

Harry met the grey eyes. They were open. Soft. Conversational. "So, did you catch it? The snitch?"

Harry struggled to loosen the clenched fist of his right hand; he couldn't feel his fingers. Malfoy glanced down, his eyes widening in surprise as Harry's hand fell open, revealing the small winged ball. His eyes darted back to Harry's, and there was something in them that transfixed Harry—

"…Two!"

A crack rent the air and Harry bucked at the pain of his leg rearranging itself, a half-scream-half-sob tearing itself from his throat, and he knew his eyes were streaming— Malfoy's fingers dug into his shoulders, and Harry could feel his hot breath on his neck as he murmured something unintelligibly soothing. Harry felt his eyes roll back in his head and he welcomed the void—

"I was invited."

"What?" Harry blinked, dizzy and disoriented. The white sand of the beach seemed to blink back at him, almost twinkling in the afternoon sun.

Draco raised his eyebrows again, giving Harry a bemused look, before producing an envelope.

Harry snatched it from him, and unsheathed the scrap of scarlet parchment, skimming the familiar greeting. He looked up at Draco, who was watching him, eyebrows still arched.

"You were invited," he repeated dumbly.

Draco frowned. "It really wasn't you?" He asked, running a hand through his hair, looking suddenly awkward. "I thought you'd sent it to be polite, hoping I would just ignore it, or even just to be a dick, or maybe you were hoping— I didn't know what to think… It never once occurred to me that you hadn't sent it— I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but then Mum saw it and she insisted—"

Harry stuffed the invitation back into the envelope, surprised at how steady his hands were. "Well, at least you're not gatecrashing," he offered in a painfully stilted attempt at a joke.

Draco's grey eyes were intense, and he took another step forward. "Would you like me to?" He asked, voice low.

Harry promptly dropped the envelope.

He scrambled to pick it up, his cheeks burning, and maybe his eyes a little bit, too—

Malfoy's mouth, hot and wet and everywhere, his fingers scrabbling impatiently at Harry's jersey as Harry backed him up into the wall of lockers and boldly crushed their lips together—

The sand was dry and burning on his bare knees as Harry carefully picked up the envelope, his breathing shallow.

"Harry," he heard Draco say, from somewhere above him, and his voice was so caring that Harry wanted to scream.

"Potter," Malfoy's eyes were big and grey and his pupils were blown wide and he was panting; he was absolutely undone. Harry ignored the creaking protest of his kneecaps on the hard tile and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the inseam of Malfoy's trousers. "Harry," Draco groaned, fisting his hands in Harry's messy hair and letting his head fall back—

Harry got to his feet, hand trembling as he extended the envelope, once again.

Draco gave him a measuring look before accepting it. "What am I supposed to think, Harry? Receiving a wedding invitation from you when not two months ago, you were in my bed—"

A voice floated to them from off in the distance— "Draco, the bags!"

"Coming, Mother!" Draco called back, his eyes not leaving Harry's.

Harry bowed his head, his eyes stinging. "I told you, I didn't send—"

"It doesn't matter who sent the invitation," Draco snapped. "I want to know what you want from me."

The last part seemed torn from his throat almost against his will, and Harry suddenly realized that maybe this was as hard for Draco as it was for him. He lifted his head, met Draco's raw, silver stare head-on.

"I love her," Harry whispered, watching Draco's face close off, but suddenly needing him to understand. "She was my first love. We basically grew up together; she's always been there—"

Draco turned around, obviously intending to leave, but Harry grabbed his arm.

"I feel…safe with her," he told Draco desperately, clutching his arm tightly, "Things— things make sense with her—"

"Safe and sensible," Draco sneered, "How absolutely romantic." He pried Harry's fingers from his shirt and shoved Harry's arm away from him, "Have a nice life, Potter."

Harry stood, propped up against the tree, for a good several minutes after Draco had left. He eventually looked up and caught sight of the small, sunny window overlooking the beach, and his heart sank.

He stood fully, brushed the sand from his knees, and made his way to the entrance of the decrepit building, feeling numb.

_ ...

Ginny was lounging on the bed in her robe, nose buried in a large piece of parchment which was creased as if it had been folded and unfolded many times. She looked up when Harry paused in the doorway, and snapped the parchment shut, stowing it away in the pocket of her robe.

"RSVP?" Harry asked, nodding at the bulging pocket.

She hummed noncommittally, unscrewing the cap on a bottle of nail polish. "Saw Malfoy arrive," she informed him, sounding nonchalant, but the look she gave him through her eyelashes was decidedly scrutinizing.

"I know," Harry sighed, plopping down next to her on the bed to rake his hands through his hair, "I didn't invite him."

"Watch it," Ginny warned, holding the tiny, dripping paintbrush steady as he accidentally jostled her on the bed.

"Sorry," Harry said sheepishly. "I know you don't like him—"

She snorted ungracefully, then blew on her wet toenails; they were painted that fresh shade of Harpies green she adored so much.

"Look," Harry said, struggling to keep his voice even, (but dear Merlin, he was too tired for this), "We talked about this. You saw other people too, when you went off to uni—"

"It's not about that," She snapped, turning to look fully at him for the first time. The paintbrush, unheeded in her fingers, dripped a tiny green spot onto her foot.

"Then what?" Harry demanded, suddenly angry, "Because he's a bloke?"

Ginny went silent. She regarded him carefully, before returning the dripping brush to the bottle with a small sigh. Harry immediately regretted his outburst.

"I just don't understand," she said softly. "He was a right git—"

"I know he was a right git at Hogwarts!" Harry hissed, but with less heat.

"What changed?" She asked, softly.

"I told you, he saved my life," Harry answered, but something in her face told him that wasn't what she had meant.

But she rolled her eyes and whatever it was he thought he'd seen in her face dissipated. "He's apprentice to a Sports Healer, that was his job—"

"Well yeah," Harry argued, "But I still thought it was pretty decent of him!"

"And then?" She prompted. She'd pulled the brush out of the little bottle again and was doing a second coat. Her hands were shaking slightly.

Harry looked away, his jaw tight. "…And then we started hanging out more, after practice, at lunch…We sort of became…mates."

"And then?" She wasn't looking at him, appearing utterly absorbed with the application of the tiny brush to her green toenails.

Harry clenched his jaw. "And then," He repeated harshly, "We became…more."

"Was it serious?" She asked, blowing on her toes again as she capped the bottle.

"No."

"Harry, don't lie to me."

Harry felt a muscle in his jaw flex, and he unclenched his fists— he'd been digging his fingernails into his palms, he realized— and tried to take a deep, calming breath. "It wasn't serious," he said again. And when she looked up, eyebrows raised, he added, voice very quiet, "…To him."

The day the papers printed the photo— a slightly blurry one, but nonetheless one which depicted, unmistakably, Harry Potter, the youngest seeker in the league and known son of a muggle-born witch, locked in steamy, passionate embrace with the blond, pure-blood, and decidedly male Malfoy heir, whose father, noted politician Lucius Malfoy, had been taking rather a lot of public heat for the past few months over some leaked private remarks that expressed both homophobic and pureblood-supremacist sentiments— well, that day, Harry had practice.

Harry had been slightly anxious about this unplanned 'coming out' to the public, but the coverage had been largely positive, and the idea that he was no longer forced to hide, that he was finally free, put him in an incredibly good mood. He accepted his teammates' ribbing all day good-naturedly, feeling too irrepressibly giddy and happy to really put an end to it. Of course, the huge, slightly spacey grins he would sport at random intervals, along with this unnaturally long tolerance he seemed to have for their antics only encouraged them in their piss-taking. Harry took it all with a smile and a roll of his eyes, but he demurred on their proposal for post-practice drinks; he hadn't talked to Draco about it yet, and he wasn't sure how the other was feeling—

He was undoing the laces on his sweaty arm guards, walking towards the door of the locker room, when he recognized Draco's voice, coming from inside.

He grinned, about to push the door open, when he heard another voice. It was Lucius Malfoy.

"—worked out brilliantly, surprisingly. I was only joking when I suggested you seduce the Potter boy, but—" There was a harsh, elegant laugh.

Harry froze, hand over the doorknob.

Lucius continued, "The tabloids, the photo— It was a little less elegant than I would have done, but I suppose the optics of it work out; you're young, after all. And I suppose your… proclivities… would have had to come out sooner or later, and the timing of this couldn't be better. Have him come 'round for dinner at the Manor; we'll have the two of you get papped when you're leaving, or maybe we'll have tea out in the garden, and we can leak photographs of us all having a marvelous time. Your mother and I will issue a statement heartily supporting the relationship, and that nasty business from before will be all but forgotten—"

Harry had heard enough. He clutched his armguard to his chest unsteadily, turned on the spot, and apparated.